


Signals

by azrielen



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Military, Motorcycles, Post-Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-26
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:32:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/546146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azrielen/pseuds/azrielen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all have pasts they don't speak about.  It's rare, but sometimes those pasts come in handy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signals

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a twd-kinkmeme prompt about Daryl being secretly ex-military. Also the first The Walking Dead fic(let) I ever wrote.

The group hits Hopewell on a shitty winter day, and this far south winter mostly spells rain instead of snow. The sight of larger buildings on the horizon is welcome, and as waterlogged as they are, they are willing to take the time to clear the first nice-looking one they come to just to get out of the wet.

The thing is, Rick forgets himself sometimes, uses hand-signals drilled into him from police training -- things Shane would know instantly -- even when Shane isn't around. This time it's Daryl he's with, Shane staying back to nurse an injured ankle and hold down the others' position until Rick or Daryl gives them the signal. They came through a stairwell full of walkers just now, unexpected and particularly violent, and even though they're out the other side and as unscathed as they could be, Rick will admit only to himself that he's a little rattled. It's this that makes him motion to Daryl on the other side of the doorway, a curt hitch of his thumb, a twist of the wrist that indicates Daryl should follow the right wall once they enter while Rick takes the left. A second later he realizes his mistake, is about to shake his head and just whisper to Daryl instead, but when he looks over again, Daryl motions back, A hard horizontal cut, then a flat motion and a spiral. They should move into the center of the room and then split up. It's a good idea, to be honest, sticking together at first and getting a better picture of the whole area, but how did-- 

And then a walker come shuffling out of a doorway just down the hall and Rick doesn't give it any more thought for a while.

+++++

They had chosen this particular building in part because it offered a garage for their vehicles. it had been a simple trick to pry off the electric door mechanisms and winch them open with some sturdy rope. It's there that Rick confronts Daryl while he's bent over Merle's motorcycle -- it's still Merle's and will be so, Rick thinks, until Merle shows up either dead, undead, or alive enough to reclaim it -- bits of engine mount and pump strewn about waiting to be cleaned. He settles down a friendly distance from Daryl, picks up a rag and a short bit of pipe and helps him quietly for a few minutes, waiting.

Finally, Daryl glances over and grunts a disgruntled, "Spit it out."

Rick chuckles. "Right to it as ever. I was just wondering how you knew the hand-signals. Yesterday."

Daryl continues polishing the jagged bit of metal in his hands for a few more minutes, then sets it off to the side. The look he trains on Rick is sharp as broken glass, measuring and almost long enough to make Rick want to squirm. He doesn't though, he just looks right back, and finally Daryl must see something he approves of, because he reaches up and pulls off his shirt, twisting to show his bare back to Rick.

Rick can't help but eye the long white lines of the scars across his lower back, but he knows better than to mention them just now. On Daryl's left shoulder, across from two winged figures, there is another tattoo, more faded but also more precise. Rick has seen plenty of tattoos like it, the subtle differences not enough for it to be anything but military. Crossed guns underneath a shield bearing a number three and the colors of the American flag. It's only a moment before Daryl turns back around again, pulling his sleeveless shirt back into place and letting out the breath he'd apparently been holding.

Daryl goes back to his cleaning, picking up a new bit of metal to work on, and it becomes obvious that he's not going to elaborate. Rick follows suit and goes back to helping, only pressing when he sees a bit of the tension let out of Daryl's shoulders. "Infantry?"

"Third division. Fort Carson. Was a while back."

Rick almost asks a lot of things. Was Merle in the army too? Was their father? He doubts both of those. How old was Daryl when he enlisted? That one he can guess, and he's sure he's right. Daryl enlisted as soon as they'd take him. Rick had met far too many guys who had used the military to escape bad situations. What he settles on is, "Why'd you leave it?"

He knows it's the wrong thing to ask the second it comes out of his mouth. The tension that had been bleeding slowly out of Daryl rockets back into him, hardening the line of his back and drawing his shoulders up, all that whip-cord strength suddenly primed in his biceps and the line of his jaw. "None of your god-damned business is why." Daryl's voice is low and flat, angrier than he had been about Rick leaving Merle behind, angrier than Rick has ever seen him.

Rick has seen anger, though; he knows how to handle it, even from men proven to be as deadly as Daryl. He doesn't back off, and he doesn't advance, folds his hands and looks Daryl in the eye. "I'm sorry. You're right, that's your business. I won't ask again." The earnest tone of his voice must win some small battle, at least, because the hard line of Daryl's brow eases just a bit, and Rick takes it as a cue to lever himself up off the ground. Before he stands up all the way, however, he takes a chance and claps a hand on Daryl's shoulder. "For what it's worth, it's good to have someone else out here with some real training."

Maybe he's finally said the right thing, because while the muscle under Rick's hand remains tense, Daryl quirks him an almost-smile and huffs, "Yeah well they never trained grunts for fuckin' walkers."

Rick lets himself laugh at that, claps Daryl on the shoulder one more time and leaves him to his work. Maybe they'll talk about this again; maybe they won't ever mention it. Maybe they'll all die tomorrow. In the trenches, they say, you take what you're given, and maybe Daryl knows that even better than Rick had originally thought.

**Author's Note:**

> My idea is that Daryl did in fact join up as soon as he was eligible just to get away from home. He served a number of years, was as loyal and dogged a soldier as any grunt could be, and was dishonorably discharged under DADT long before the reforms.


End file.
